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    Hey Mom and Steve too. I hope you are doing well. All is good here. Just getting ready to meet and start out. I figure 2 days up and 1 down. Back on the plane soon after and back home in less than 5. Don’t worry about me. Everything is perfect—see you soon…and little brother remember if you need help I’m only a text away.
    Typical arrogant DJ, going to climb a mountain like it was the same as going to Safeway. And he’d probably do it too. Easy for him with guides and everything, and here I was alone in a foreign country with only the sketchiest idea of what I was to do.
    I almost ignored the text, but then I sent back, Doing my task. If u need any help let ME know.
    The first bus that came along said Plaça de Catalunya on the front. I knew that Catalunya was downtown and not too far from the Gothic Quarter where my address was, so this was perfect, except that the bus was crowded. It was a long bus, jointed in the middle, and every inch was packed with seated or standing men and women in jeans, T-shirts, jackets and caps. There wasn’t a suit or tie in sight. They were obviously not office workers.
    I stepped back, prepared to wait for the next bus, but the vehicle wheezed to a stop and the doors opened. I waited for people to get off to make room for me and my backpack, but nothing happened. I peered in the double doors halfway along the bus’s length. A sea of tanned faces smiled down at me. I hesitated. There was no room. A chorus of unintelligible words broke out and hands waved me on. Uncertainly, I stood on the step. Immediately I was grabbed and hauled in among the tightly packed bodies. My backpack disappeared over everyone’s heads to the back of the bus and the doors closed behind me. The bus jerked forward. I felt like a sardine and wondered nervously if I’d ever see my pack again.
    The guy beside me, his face inches from mine, smiled and said, “ Benvingut. ?Com estàs? ”
    They were words I hadn’t learned. In fact, the way he said them, they didn’t even sound Spanish. “ Hola ,” I tried. “ Buenos días. Mi nombre es Steve .”
    The man shook his head. Everything about him was dark: his hair, his eyes, the shadow of a beard on his chin, even his black leather jacket. “No,” he said. “No Espanyol. ” He dragged his right arm up from the crush and pointed to his forehead. “ Catalan .” He managed to wave his hand over his head to include everyone on the bus. “ Catalan ,” he repeated.
    I nodded. I had read that the people around Barcelona called themselves Catalan instead of Spanish, but I hadn’t realized that they spoke a completely different language.
    â€œAina,” the man shouted over his shoulder. A disturbance ran through the crowded bus and a young woman pushed her way forward. All I could see of her was her head with her hair tied in a tight bun at the back. The man said something long and incomprehensible to her. She looked at me and smiled, her white teeth standing out dramatically against her olive skin.
    â€œYou are English?” she asked.
    â€œI’m Canadian,” I replied.
    She nodded as if that explained everything. “Welcome to Catalunya,” she went on. “My name is Aina. You would say Anna in English. My friend, Agusti”—she nodded at the man who had tried to talk to me—“speaks only Catalan.” She lowered her voice, “Actually, he speaks Spanish, but he does not like to.” The man gave Aina a withering look.
    â€œYou speak English very well,” I said.
    Aina smiled once more. “Thank you. I worked in London for two years as a barmaid. Now Agusti and I work at the factory making boxes for the gears in cars.”
    â€œTransmissions,” I suggested.
    â€œYes,” Aina said. “What is your name?”
    â€œSteve.” Aina looked puzzled. “Steven,” I expanded.
    â€œAh, Steven.